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UC-NRLF 


B    3    Sfll    S21 


THE  SISTER  OF 
A  CERTAIN  SOLDIER 


m^\w:^r\w 


STEPHEN  J.  MA  HER 


Price:  Popular  Edition,  Twtnty-five  Cents 


[The  Waterbtiry  American.] 

A  STIRRING  STORY  WHOSE  AUTHOR 

IS  A  WELL=KNOWN  NEW  HAVEN 

PHYSICIAN. 

"The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier"  is  a 
title  that  has  attracted  unusual  attention  to 
the  little  book,  recently  published  by  Dr. 
Stephen  J.  Maher  of  New  Haven.  And  a 
certain  literary  quality  which  the  title  it- 
self suggests  is  the  chief  feature  of  the 
little  story  which  the  ])ook  chronicles. 
Written  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of 
certain  French  realists,  it  is  characterized 
by  an  unusually  good  style,  diction  of  more 
than  usual  attractiveness  and  a  story  which 
is  well  worked  up  to  the  climax,  or  rather 
the  double  climax  for  such  the  ending  really 
is,  the  stirring  departure  of  a  unique  regi- 
ment of  soldiers  being  the  first,  and  the  fate 
of  the  girl  the  second. 

Not  to  tell  the  story,  as  all  readers  will 
want  to  read  it  for  themselves,  suffice  it  to 
say  that  "The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier" 
is  a  dramatic  short  story  that  revolves 
around  the  actions  of  a  young  girl,  belong- 
ing to  a  certain  section  of  American  life, 
the  treatment  of  that  section,  accorded  by 
the  world  at  large,  having  bred  in  her  a 
moroseness  and  bitterness  that  was  reach- 
ing a  dangerous  stage,  when  it  was  arrested, 
first  by  a  visitation  of  poliomyelitis,  and 
then  by  the  European  war  itself,  when  she 
proved  a  veritable  Joan  of  Arc  to  her  own 
people. 

The  little  book  is  read  through  in  thirty 
minutes,  but  they  are  certainly  minutes 
each  one  of  them  full  of  sixty  seconds  of 
real  pulsating  living. 


THE  SISTER  OF 
A  CERTAIN  SOLDIER 


BY 


STEPHEN   J.  MAKER 


"A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that  " 


NEW  HAVEN 

Press  of  The  Tutti.e,  Morehouse  &  Taylor  Company 
MDCCccx\ari 


Copyright,  1918,  by 

Stephen  J.  Maher 

Published  March,  1918 

All  Rights  Reserved 


C^^yy  \-N^aJU' 


S 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Chapter  I. 
"A  Faded  Proclamation." 5 

Chapter  II. 
"A  Few  Lines  from  a  Lady." 13 

Chapter  III. 
"Did  You  Ever  See  Her  Ride?" 19 

Chapter  IV. 
"Always  Has  His  Own  Way." 27 

Chapter  V. 
"The  Song" 34 

Chapter  VI. 
"I've  Been  Knocking  Wood." 38 

Chapter  VII. 
"A  Sworn  Promise" 43 

Chapter  VIII. 
A  Sunlit  Altar 46 


377931 


CHAPTER  I. 

"A  Faded  Proclamation." 

It  really  began  on  one  of  the  hot  rainy  after- 
noons of  June,  1916.  I  don't  mean  that  my 
acquaintance  with  the  young  woman  began  then. 
Not  at  all.  She  and  other  members  of  her  family 
had  been  occasional  patients  of  mine  for  several 
years.  But  it  was  on  that  June  afternoon  that  an 
innocent  question  of  mine  precipitated  the  strange 
happenings  here  narrated.  I  have  had  some  pro- 
fessional diffidence  about  telling  the  things  revealed 
to  me  by  this  patient.  My  Psyche  and  I  have  just 
had  a  violent  dispute  on  that  very  point.  My 
Psyche's  argument  was  that  the  patient  would  be 
glad  to  have  the  story  told,  and  that  for  the  sake  of 
the  public  the  story  ought  to  be  told.  Therefore  I 
am  going  to  tell  it  even  at  the  risk  of  receiving  the 
condemnation  of  the  captious. 

The  patient  was  the  rather  tall,  graceful,  soft- 
spoken,  modestly  dressed  daughter  of  a  prosperous 
farmer  named  Morphy  in  the  adjacent  town  of 
Stornham.  When  she  was  a  pay-pupil  in  the  New 
Haven  High  School,  eight  or  nine  years  ago, 
I  had  treated  her  for  a  slight  attack  of  tonsillitis. 
After  that  I  followed  with  some  interest  her  various 
school  successes  in  scholarship,  in  singing  and  on 
the  basket-ball  team.  She  was  the  class  poet.  Some 
of  her  successes  were  very  remarkable  because,  in 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

one  important  particular,  she  differed  from  the 
other  girls  in  her  class ;  her  blood  was  largely  negro. 
And  the  fact  was  plain  to  everybody  in  spite  of  a 
skin  not  darker  than  that  of  some  South-Europeans, 
and  in  spite  of  her  beautiful  straight  hair. 

On  this  June  afternoon  that  I  speak  of,  she  had 
called  because  of  a  soreness  of  the  elbow  that  had 
bothered  her  for  a  few  days.  After  I  had  exam- 
ined her  and  advised  her,  I  said,  as  I  finished 
writing  her  prescription: 

"Well,  Lucy,  now  that  war  with  Mexico  seems 
certain  and  war  with  Germany  probable,  are  you 
getting  ready  to  enlist  as  a  nurse,  or  are  you  pre- 
paring to  take  your  brother's  place  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  farm  as  soon  as  he  joins  the  army?" 

The  question  was  put  more  in  banter  than  seri- 
ously, but  I  didn't  realize  the  dynamic  possibilities 
of  that  question.  The  girl's  reply  came  immedi- 
ately, and  with  such  a  display  of  feeling  as  I  had 
never  before  seen  her  exhibit : 

"I  am  going  to  do  neither.  And  none  of  our 
men  folks  that  I  can  influence  will  ever  join  the 
United  States  Army,  or  the  United  States  Navy. 
You  know  my  brother.  You  know  what  a  fine  lad 
he  is.  You  know  how  I  love  him  and  how  proud 
we  all  are  of  him.  Well,  if  he  attempted  to  enlist 
in  the  army,  I  would  kill  him." 

"That's  a  shocking  statement,"  I  said,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "I  don't  like  to  believe  you 
are  in  earnest." 

"Shocking  or  not,  I  mean  every  word  of  it." 


"A  Faded  Proclamation/* 


"What's  the  explanation?  Don't  you  care 
whether  or  not  Connecticut  meets  the  fate  of 
Belgium  and  Servia?" 

"It  would  be  a  terrible  price  to  pay,  but  even 
that  price  would  probably  be  worth  while." 

My  blood  boiled.  I  arose,  handed  her  her  pre- 
scription and  said,  as  curtly  as  I  knew  how,  "I 
think  we'd  better  not  discuss  that  subject  any  fur- 
ther." 

She  smiled  bitterly  as  she  took  the  paper. 
"That's  it,  it's  always  the  same.  The  white  man's 
point  of  view  is  always  and  everlastingly  right, 
because  it  is  his.  The  colored  man's  point  of  view 
is  always  and  everlastingly  wrong  because  it  is  his." 

"Your  point  of  view,"  I  replied  as  I  walked 
toward  the  door,  "is  neither  the  white  man's  nor  the 
colored  man's  point  of  view,  nor  the  point  of  view 
of  any  one  else  outside  of  Germany  or  an  institution 
for  the  criminal  insane." 

"I  believe  it  to  be  the  point  of  view  of  God 
Almighty.  I  believe  that  God  has  decided  that 
there  is  no  better  way  of  driving  the  hypocrisy  and 
cruelty  out  of  the  American  white  man's  heart, — no 
other  way  than  by  making  him  suffer  pain  and 
humiliation.  Up  to  now  he  has  been  so  uniformly 
successful  that  both  he  and  his  wife,  particularly  his 
wife,  have  become  impossible  to  other  people." 

"You  think  there  is  more  tenderness  in  the  Ger- 
man than  in  the  American  heart?" 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  the  German's  heart  at  all. 
In  his  own  way  and  in  his  own  time  God  will  punish 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

the  German  of  hard  heart.  But  I  know  that  God 
has  promised  repeatedly  to  pmiish  such  tyranny  as 
the  white  people  of  America  show  to  the  colored 
folks." 

"Don't  you  think  the  white  Americans  have 
pleased  God  by  freeing  the  colored  folks  from  slav- 
ery, and  by  doing  all  the  big  things  that  they  have 
done  for  the  training  and  educating  of  the  colored 
folk?  Is  there  any  country  in  the  world  where  one 
class  of  people  has  done  so  much  for  another  class 
as  the  white  people  of  America  have  done  for  the 
colored  people  of  America?" 

"I  admit  both  of  those  arguments,  but  they  con- 
cern the  past.  And  for  the  colored  folks  of  this 
generation  neither  of  those  arguments  removes  the 
bitterness  of  the  insults  and  discrimination  that  they 
meet  every  day  of  their  lives,  and  that  are  getting 
worse  and  more  frequent  every  year,  particularly 
in  the  North." 

"Does  anybody  insult  you?  Aren't  these  insults 
that  you  talk  about  mostly  exaggerated  hearsay 
tilings,  or  the  result  of  somebody's  carrying  a  chip 
on  his  shoulder?" 

"The  insults  are  real,  and  no  chip  on  the  shoulder 
is  necessary  to  provoke  them.  And — yes,  people 
insult  me.  I  don't  want  to  take  up  your  time  tell- 
ing about  my  troubles  but.  Doctor,  you  are  to  blame, 
you  began  the  discussion.  I  don't  often  allow 
myself  to  grow  excited  on  the  subject,  but  if  you 
really  want  a  peep  at  an  important  truth,  there  it  is.. 
But  it  is  only  a  peep.     Anybody  insult  me?     Oh, 


"A  Faded  Proclamation. 


God,  if  you  only  knew,  if  you  only  knew!"  She 
burst  into  tears  and  turning  from  me,  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

This  abatement  of  her  mood  mollified  me. 
"Please  sit  down  and  tell  me  about  it,"  I  said. 
"This  is  all  news  to  me." 

"Thanks,  no,  I'll  stand.     Tell  you  about  what?" 

"Well,  what  evidence  have  you  that  here  in  the 
North  you  yourself  are  insulted  or  treated  unfairly 
because  you  are  not  white?" 

"Why,  my  dear  Doctor,  evidence!  Evidence! 
My  experience  every  hour  of  my  life  spent  outside 
of  my  own  home  is  evidence.  Because  my  skin  is 
not  very  black  a  white  woman  will  come  and  sit 
beside  me  in  the  trolley  car.  As  soon  as  she  gets  a 
good  look  at  me,  she  takes  another  seat  if  she  can,  or 
she  shows  by  all  sorts  of  antics  that  she  wishes  she 
could  get  another  seat. 

"When  I  go  into  the  big  stores,  the  clerks  deliber- 
ately disregard  me  as  long  as  they  can  find  anything 
else  to  do,  and  when  they  do  wait  on  me  they  are 
snarlish  or  condescending. 

"Until  the  last  few  years  whenever  I  went  to  any 
first-class  theatrical  or  operatic  performance  in 
New  Haven,  neither  I  nor  any  of  my  family  ever 
had  any  difficulty  getting  any  seat  we  were  able  to 
pay  for.  And  my  family,  remember,  was  enjoying 
the  best  theatrical  performances  in  New  Haven 
before  most  of  the  present-day  audiences  of  the 
theaters  had  been  squeezed  through  Ellis  Island. 
Now  what  happens  when  I  want  to  go  to  a  theatri- 
9 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

cal  performance?  Either  tickets  are  refused  out- 
right, or  I  am  told  I  must  go  to  the  top  gallery ;  or, 
sometimes  if  I  make  a  fuss,  or  if  the  show  is  not 
selling  well,  I  am  told  to  come  around  later,  and 
when  I  come  later  and  get  tickets  and  go  to  the  per- 
formance, I  find  that  the  most  undesirable  corner  of 
that  part  of  the  house  has  been  reserved  for  me  and 
a  few  other  'niggers'. 

"And  as  to  the  nice  restaurants  and  hotels,  you, 
yourself  must  have  seen  that  the  color  of  my  skin 
bars  me  from  them.  Of  course,  I  know  enough 
now  not  to  try  to  be  served  in  them,  no  matter  how 
hungry  I  am  nor  how  well  able  I  am  to  pay  their 
prices. 

"Sometimes  I  forget.  One  day  last  summer  I 
went  to  the  drug  store  in  which  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  get  prescriptions  filled;  I  bought  some 
toilet  articles.  The  day  was  very  hot  and  I  was 
very  thirsty.  I  ordered  a  glass  of  soda-water. 
The  clerk  hurried  to  the  back  of  the  store,  and  when 
he  came  back  he  got  very  busy  rearranging  bottles 
on  one  of  the  shelves.  The  truth  didn't  occur  to  me. 
Two  men  and  a  woman  came  up  to  the  soda  foun- 
tain, and  the  clerk  promptly  waited  on  them.  I 
thought  he  hadn't  heard  my  order  so  I  said : 
"  'Make  mine  orange-phosphate,  please.' 

"He  began  to  talk  about  the  war  to  the  two  men. 
I  was  getting  thirstier  all  the  while,  and  I  had  a 
long  hot  walk  home  ahead  of  me.     So  I  said  again, 

"  'Make  mine  orange-phosphate,  please.' 

"He  faced  me  angrily  and  said:  'See  here.  Miss, 

10 


*'A  Faded  Proclamation/' 


don't  you  know  we  don't  serve  colored  people  at  our 
soda  fountain?' 

"It  was  such  a  surprise  that  I  couldn't  move  or 
speak.  I  would  have  thanked  somebody  to  kill  me 
on  the  spot.  In  fact,  I  thought  I  would  die.  I 
felt  that  my  heart  stopped  beating  for  ever  so  long. 
I  must  have  acted  queerly.  The  two  men  custom- 
ers were  plainly  embarrassed  by  the  situation,  but 
their  woman  companion  turning  toward  me,  held 
up  her  long  glassful  of  foaming  cold  drink,  and  said 
smilingly,  'This  is  delicious  soda  they  sell  here.' 

"I  rushed  out  of  the  store  and  into  the  baking, 
dusty  road  and  ran  all  the  way  home  trying  vainly 
to  escape  from  the  vision  of  that  cruel  white  woman 
holding  up  before  me  the  cooling  drink  that  I  must 
not  taste  because  of  the  color  of  my  skin." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  my  front  door.  She 
turned  the  knob  and,  pulling  the  door  ajar,  she  said 
sobbingly: 

"Perhaps  you  think  I  can  cure  these  daily  wounds 
of  my  soul  by  applying  to  them  the  faded  procla- 
mation of  emancipation. 

"I  can't  do  it.  Doctor.  And  you  couldn't  do  it. 
No  human  being  could  do  it.  I  am  not  going  to 
try  to  do  it  any  more." 

Pulling  the  door  wide  open  as  she  uttered  the  last 
sentence,  her  rather  elevated  voice  attracted  the 
attention  of  some  children  romping  by  with  school- 
books  under  their  arms.  One  of  the  boys  immedi- 
ately called  out,  pointing  to  my  trembling  patient : 

"Some  Coon!" 

11 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

The  rest  of  the  children  hurried  past  the  house, 
laughing  loudly  at  the  wit  of  their  spokesman.  To 
my  surprise  instead  of  showing  resentment,  my 
patient  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  as  she 
descended  the  steps  called  back  to  me : 

"I  spent  four  of  my  happiest  girlhood  years  in 
the  school  those  children  come  from.     Now,  I  am 


12 


CHAPTER  II. 

"A  Few  Lines  from  a  Lady/' 

A  week  later  I  had  a  call  from  Fred  Morphy,  the 
father  of  the  girl. 

"What  did  you  do  to  my  daughter  last  week?" 
he  asked,  semi- seriously,  when  admitted  into  the 
consultation  room. 

"You  mean,  what  did  she  do  to  me?"  I  replied. 
"I  haven't  been  so  stirred  up  in  a  long  while  as  I 
was  by  some  things  she  said  to  me.     How  is  she?" 

"Oh,  that  little  sickness  you  treated  her  for  is  all 
better.  But  she  has  been  having  an  awful  stormy 
time  in  her  mind  ever  since  she  was  in  here.  She 
cried  a  good  deal  that  night  and  she  wouldn't  say 
what  was  wrong.  She  worked  real  hard  about  the 
house  next  day  but  she  didn't  want  to  talk.  I 
told  you  before  she's  a  dreadful  religious  girl. 
That  second  night  she  sat  up  an  extra  long  time 
reading  the  Bible.  I  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  heard  her  talkin'.  I  got  scared  and  went 
over  to  the  door  of  her  room,  The  lights  was  lit, 
and  she  was  on  her  knees  on  the  floor  with  her  face 
buried  in  a  pillow  on  the  bed.  I  could  hear  her  say : 
'I  promise,  Lord,  I  promise,  I  promise.  An'  Lord, 
I  know  you  won't  forget  us,  your  poor  black 
children.  I  know  you  won't  forget  us.  Show  me 
what  to  do,  Lord,  and  I'll  do  it  no  matter  what  it 
costs  me.  Lord,  and  no  matter  where  it  leads  me. 
Don't  think  of  me.  Lord,  but  only  of  my  poor  black 

13 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

people.  Let  them  be  an  honor  to  you,  Lord,  in  the 
eyes  of  all  the  world.' 

"I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer  and  I  called  to  her 
to  stop  that  nonsense  an'  go  to  bed.  She  got  up 
and  was  sorry  she  woke  me  up.  I  asked  her  what 
was  the  matter  with  her,  and  whether  she  was  goin' 
crazy.  She  said  nothing  was  the  matter.  Then  I 
saw  the  Bible  was  on  the  bed.  I  told  her  lots  of 
people  had  gone  crazy  readin'  the  Bible,  and  she'd 
have  to  stop  it.  I  tried  to  get  real  mad  with  her, 
but  you  can't  get  mad  with  that  girl.  She  only 
laughed.  Then  she  kissed  me  and  drove  me  back  to 
my  room. 

"The  next  morning  she  went  off  to  some  church 
service.  That  noon,  when  her  brother  Jim  came  in 
to  dinner,  he  told  about  the  sickness  on  the 
Smythers'  farm.  He  said  they  were  almost  all 
sick  down  there  with  that  new  sickness,  the  baby's 
paralysis  that's  killing  so  many  groAvn-ups,  and 
that  they  couldn't  get  nobody  to  help  on  the  farm 
and  nobody  to  help  with  the  nursin'. 

"Lucy  got  excited  right  off  and  after  dinner  she 
came  to  me  and  said :  'Dad,  I  am  going  down  to  the 
Smythers  to  help.' 

"I  laughed  at  her.  'Why,  girlie,'  I  said,  'they 
wouldn't  let  you  inside  of  their  barn.  You  know 
very  well  that  they  hate  colored  folks.  Haven't 
they  insulted  you  time  and  again?" 

"  'Yes,  I  know.  But  now  they  need  help,  and  I 
am  going  to  give  it  to  them,  or  at  least,  I  am  going 
to  offer  it  to  them.'  " 

14 


''A  Few  Lines  from  a  Lady. " 

"And  she  did.  She  went  over  to  the  Smythers' 
and  we  haven't  seen  her  since.  There's  a  big  yellow 
sign  on  the  door  of  the  Smythers'  house,  and  nobody 
can  go  in  there.  In  fact,  nobody  wants  to  go  in 
there.  One  child  died  yesterday  and  was  buried 
last  night.  Another  is  thought  to  be  dying.  The 
doctor  says  the  mother  will  get  well.  Lucy  tele- 
phones and  says  that  she  is  working  hard  and  doesn't 
get  much  sleep,  but  she  is  happy.  How  she  can  be 
happy  slaving  and  risking  her  life  for  folks  who'd 
spit  on  her  if  they  was  well,  is  more'n  I  can  under- 
stand. She  telephoned  me  this  morning  to  tell  you 
the  first  time  I  saw  you  that  she  was  sorry  for  what 
she  said  to  you  when  she  was  in  here  last.  What 
did  she  say  to  you  that  time?  Did  she  insult  you? 
I  never  knew  that  girl  to  insult  anybody  before." 

"No,"  I  said,  "she  didn't  insult  me;  far  from  it. 
But  when  she  calls  you  up  again  tell  her  it  is  all 
right,  and  that  I  am  confident  that  she  will  make  a 
good  nurse." 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  said  her  father.  "She  has  been 
talking  to  you  about  becoming  a  nurse !" 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  him  that  I 
had  never  discussed  the  nurse  problem  with  his 
daughter.  When  he  left,  he  promised  to  keep  me 
informed  as  to  his  daughter's  progress  as  a  nurse. 

He  must  have  forgotten  the  promise.  I  didn't 
see  him  or  hear  from  him  for  a  long  while.  I 
watched  in  the  newspaper  reports  of  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  epidemic  of  poliomyelitis  for  accounts  of 
the  situation  in  Stornham,  but  I  found  recorded  the 

15 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

death  of  only  one  child  named  Smythers.  Then 
the  snow  came  and  the  epidemic  ceased.  The 
increasingly  alarming  war  news  crowded  it  out  of 
the  papers. 

During  the  long  winter  months  I  sometimes 
wondered  whether  the  second  Smythers  child  had 
died,  and  also  why  I  never  heard  anj^thing  more 
from  Morphy  or  his  daughter ;  but  I  was  very  busy 
with  other  matters  and  I  made  no  inquiries. 

The  State  Medical  Society  held  its  annual  meet- 
ing in  New  Haven  this  year.  Most  of  the  discus- 
sions, public  and  private,  were  of  the  war.  During 
the  dinner  at  the  Taft,  just  before  the  speech- 
making  began,  Dr.  Krain,  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
came  over  to  my  table  with  a  young  doctor  that  I 
didn't  know,  and  said : 

"Look  here.  Doctor,  I  am  sorry  to  learn  that  you 
are  losing  your  grip  on  that  practice  of  yours. 
Here's  a  youth  that  says  he  has  stolen  one  of 
your  patients,  and,  in  spite  of  my  warning  that 
you'd  snub  him,  he  insists  on  getting  an  introduction 
to  you,  in  order  to  bring  a  message  to  you  from  the 
patient.  This  is  Dr.  Menoux  of  the  fine  old  town 
of  Stornham." 

"Oh,  no  danger,"  said  the  stranger;  "I  merely 
want  to  give  you  a  note  from  the  patient.  If  you 
wish,  I  will  take  back  the  answer.  She  would  like 
a  reply  as  soon  as  possible." 

I  tore  open  the  little  envelope  and  read: 


16 


''A  Few  Lines  from  a  Lady.  '* 

"My  dear  Doctor : — 

My  brother  enlisted  some  weeks  ago.  We  have 
a  whole  company  of  colored  boys  from  this  part  of 
the  county.  They  have  orders  from  headquarters 
to  leave  town  on  a  special  train  at  7  o'clock  to-mor- 
row evening.  We  want  to  give  them  a  little  send- 
off.  I  would  love  to  have  you  see  them.  If  you 
can,  come  down  in  the  afternoon.     I  could  have 

my  father  meet  you. 

Gratefully  yours, 

Lucy  Morphy." 

The  effect  that  the  note  had  on  me  was  so  great 
that  even  the  young  doctor  smiled  and  said: 

"Surprised  you,  eh?" 

And  then  Krain  called  out: 

"Oh,  ho!  Oh,  ha!  It's  time  for  me  to  go;  but, 
say,  I  didn't  think  a  few  lines  from  a  lady  could 
so  disturb  you."     He  shook  hands  and  left. 

I  stared  at  Dr.  Menoux  and  replied,  "Surprised 
me?  Yes,  more  than  I  can  tell.  Yes,  of  course, 
I'll  go.  Will  you  see  her  before  to-morrow  after- 
noon? All  right.  Tell  her  that  I  will  be  at  her 
house  in  my  machine  before  four  o'clock  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

"Nonsense,"  he  answered  promptly.  "Don't  try 
to  go  near  her  house  to-morrow  afternoon.  You'd 
never  reach  it.  And  she  won't  be  there.  You'd 
better  take  her  suggestion  and  fix  a  time  and  place 
in  the  center  of  the  town  where  old  Morphy  can 
meet  you.  Why  not  say  my  office,  it's  just  across 
the  Green  from  the  Town  Hall.  You'd  better 
come  as  early  as  you  can  in  the  afternoon." 

17 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

"Agreed,"  I  replied.  "I'll  leave  here  about 
three  o'clock.  It's  less  than  twenty  miles  on  a  good 
state  road.  I'll  be  at  your  office  long  before  four 
o'clock.  But,  tell  me,  is  the  girl  sick?  Do  you 
have  to  call  every  day?" 

"She  has  been  very  sick.  She  is  better  now. 
But  don't  ask  any  more  questions  about  her.  I 
think  she  would  prefer  to  tell  you  the  story  herself." 

The  next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table  I  men- 
tioned the  fact  that  I  would  have  short  office  hours 
in  the  afternoon  because  I  had  promised  to  go  to 
Stornham  to  witness  the  entraining  of  the  new 
negro  infantry  company. 

"Say,  there's  an  item  about  that  in  the  Courier 
this  morning,"  said  my  brother,  "and  I  couldn't 
quite  understand  it.  Here  it  is;  it's  on  the  front 
page,  but  under  a  Stornham  date  line: 

"the  halls  too  small. 

"Stornham,  June  10.  Both  of  the  factories  in 
town  will  close  at  noon  to-morrow  so  that  everybody 
will  have  an  opportunity  to  see  and  hear  the  colored 
troops.  It  has  been  decided  finally  to  sing  'The 
Song'  in  the  Green.  There  isn't  any  hall  big 
enough  to  hold  the  crowd  that  is  expected.  Every 
church  in  town  was  offered  free  to  the  committee. 
They  were  all  too  small." 


18 


CHAPTER  III. 

"Did  You  Ever  See  Her  Ride?" 

It  was  nearly  half  past  three  that  afternoon 
before  I  got  through  with  the  last  patient.  As  I 
hurried  into  my  car,  Jerry,  my  chauffeur,  said 
rather  petulantly,  "We  won't  make  it  by  four 
o'clock,  Doctor." 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  as  I  fixed  my  goggles. 
"We've  got  a  good  road  and  thirty  minutes  and  the 
distance  is  less  than  twenty  miles." 

"Yes,  that's  all  right;  but  an  hour  ago  I  was 
talking  to  a  couple  of  colored  fellows  who  drive 
for  folks  on  the  hill.  They  were  beating  it  for  the 
train.  They  told  me  that  all  the  colored  folks  in 
this  part  of  the  state  are  going  to  Stornham  this 
afternoon,  and  that  the  state  road  to  Stornham  has 
been  choking  full  of  jitneys  and  all  kinds  of  wagons 
for  the  last  three  hours.  That's  the  reason  they 
went  down  by  train." 

"Never  mind.  We'll  have  a  good  time.  A  fine 
day;  a  fine  ride,  and  something  new  to  see !  Cheer 
up,  Jerry." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Doctor,  but  I  must  say  I  don't 
like  meeting  so  many  black  people.     It  ain't  lucky." 

This  mental  slant  of  Jerry's  amused  me  and  when 
we  passed  over  the  last  city  bridge,  and  were  speed- 
ing along  the  first  miles  of  the  state  road,  I  teased 
him  a  little,  because  I  had  never  found  the  turnpike 
so  free  of  vehicles  of  all  kinds.     We  made  the  first 

19 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

ten  miles  in  sixteen  minutes;  but  then,  just  beyond 
Redf  ord  we  ran  through  the  straggling  rear  of  such 
a  line  of  conveyances  as  I  had  never  seen  before.  •  A 
couple  of  minutes  further  on  we  were  obliged  "to 
slow  down  to  a  walk,"  as  Jerry  put  it.  And  from 
that  time  until  we  reached  Stornham  Green  an  hour 
later,  we  were  an  integral  part  of  the  procession. 
Its  two  parallel  lines  filled  the  road.  During  all 
the  seven  miles  only  one-way  traffic  was  possible  on 
the  road.  Three-fourths  of  the  occupants  of  the 
vehicles  were  colored  people;  but  many  of  the 
finest  cars  in  the  state  were  there  bearing  their 
white  owners  to  the  general  rendezvous. 

When  I  had  conquered  my  first  feelings  of  irrita- 
tion and  disappointment,  I  began  to  enjoy  the  situa- 
tion. A  picnicky  spirit  pervaded  it.  There  was 
laughter  or  song  in  every  jitney,  in  every  smart 
limousine,  and  in  every  creaking  crowded  farm 
wagon.  Even  the  riders  of  motor-cycles  took  the 
troublous  delay  good-naturedly.  Some  of  the  sing- 
ing, particularly  by  groups  of  colored  men  in  motor 
busses,  was  notably  fine.  Jerry  became  interested 
in  the  singing. 

"Say,  Doctor,"  he  asked,  "what  is  that  song?" 
"I  don't  know,"  I  told  him. 

He  referred  to  a  strange  melody  that  many  of 
these  gi'oups  in  the  busses  and  vans  hummed  in 
unison  whenever  there  was  an  interval  between  the 
singing  of  the  ordinary  popular  songs. 

At  first  I  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  it,  but 
before  we  reached  Stornham  I  found  the  repeated 

20 


''Did  You  Ever  See  Her  Ride?" 

choral  humming  of  this  mysterious  air  giving  me 
a  new  pleasure  and  a  desire  to  know  more  about  it. 

Just  outside  of  Stornham,  we  found  ourselves 
under  the  jurisdiction  of  khaki-clad  white  soldiers 
who  parted  the  oncoming  double  line,  and  diverted 
its  parts  into  town  by  different  roads.  The  jam  in 
the  little  town  was  worse  than  on  the  road,  but  we 
finally  drew  up  in  front  of  Dr.  Menoux's  office. 

And,  sure  enough,  there  was  old  Morphy  stand- 
ing in  the  door,  and  violently  waving  a  little  silk 
flag  at  me.  Soldiers  were  everywhere,  a  great 
many  patrolling  with  rifles  on  their  shoulders, 
and  many  of  all  grades  unarmed  and  not  on  duty ; 
but  to  my  surprise,  they  were  all  white  troopers. 

I  couldn't  see  a  colored  soldier  anywhere  about 
the  Green.  The  Green  in  Stornham  is  an  unfenced 
grassy  oblong  plot  of  four  acres,  shaded  and  almost 
canopied  with  enormous  elms.  At  one  end  there  is 
a  band-stand.  I  saw  now  that  the  band-stand  had 
been  recently  enlarged  to  about  ten  times  its  original 
dimensions.  The  Green  was  packed  with  people 
except  for  a  roped-off  space  about  twenty  yards 
square  in  front  of  the  band-stand.  A  picket  of  a 
dozen  white  soldiers  kept  out  of  this  space  every- 
body except  a  few  white  ushers  who  were  bringing 
from  somewhere  churchly-looking  chairs,  and 
arranging  them  in  a  churchly  way. 

Old  Morphy  had  become  impatient  at  my  delay 
in  leaving  the  car.  He  fought  his  way  through  the 
crowd  on  the  walk,  and  stepping  on  the  running 
board,  said: 

21 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

"Look  here,  Doctor,  you're  too  late  now.  You'd 
better  come  inside  and  see  Dr.  Menoux.  He'll  tell 
you  all  about  it.  Lucy's  gone.  She  wanted  to 
tell  you  herself.  She  waited  and  waited,  but  you 
didn't  come,  and  finally  the  captain  said  they 
couldn't  wait  no  longer." 

Mystified,  I  got  out  and  entered  the  house  which 
I  found  filled  with  the  young  doctor's  friends  who 
had  come  to  view  the  parade.  In  a  moment  the 
doctor  himself  appeared  and,  taking  my  hand,  led 
me  into  his  little  consultation  room. 

"How  many  tickets  will  you  need?  She  left  me 
only  two  for  you." 

"Tickets!  Tickets  for  what?"  I  replied. 
"Come,  tell  me  what  it's  all  about,  Can't  I  see  the 
parade  from  your  windows,  or  from  my  own  car? 
This  mystery  that  nobody  wants  to  explain  to  me  is 
making  me  dizzy.  Old  man  Morphy  said  you  were 
going  to  give  me  a  message  of  explanation  from  the 
girl,  and  instead  you  ask  me  how  many  tickets  I 
want.  Why  should  I  want  tickets?  Where  have 
they  taken  the  girl  and  why  have  they  taken  her? 
And  who  are  they  who  have  taken  her?  For 
Heaven's  sake  tell  me  the  story.  Didn't  you  prom- 
ise the  girl  you  would?" 

The  young  doctor  bristled  immediately  and 
began  angrily,  "See  here,  Doctor,  this  is  my  .  .  ." 
Then  he  hesitated  and  lowering  his  voice  said, 
"Excuse  me,  it's  my  French  blood  ...  I  see.  I 
see  now.  I  suppose  I  ought  in  fact  to  have  told 
you  the  story  over  in  the  Taft  last  night.  And — 
yes,  I  promised  the  girl  to  tell  it  here,  but  it's  such 

22 


''Did  You  Ever  See  Her  Ride?'' 

a  long  story  I  couldn't  tell  it  to  you  now  and  do 
justice  to  it  before  the  parade  will  be  here.  I 
intended  to  tell  you  all  the  facts  after  the  exercises 
are  over.  I  thought  if  I  gave  you  the  tickets  and 
the  program  now,  I  would  have  time  to  unfold  the 
whole  marvellous  tale  to  you  after  the  place  had 
calmed  down  and  after  I  had  calmed  down.  I  have 
been  as  hysterical  as  a  bridegroom  all  day.  This 
wonderful  colored  girl  has  got  on  all  our  nerves. 
My  wife  lay  awake  all  night  with  the  excitement. 
My  wife  is  a  devout  Catholic.  She's  just  gone 
upstairs  now  to  make  a  final  prayer,  or  rather 
demand,  to  St.  Joseph  for  the  success  of  this  colored 
girl  this  afternoon.  St.  Joseph,  she  says,  is  the  spe- 
cial patron  in  Heaven  of  the  colored  race.  Yes,  yes, 
I  know  this  isn't  telling  you  what  you  want  to  learn. 
But  where  will  I  begin?    Excuse  me,  take  a  chair. 

I  took  a  chair  and  pushed  another  toward  him. 

"All  right.  I  will  go  over  the  facts  very  briefly. 
'No,  I  couldn't  sit  still  and  talk  about  this  thing. 

"Well,  the  first  time  I  saw  the  girl  was  when  she 
came  and  helped  me  out  of  that  terrible  mess  of 
infantile  paralysis  over  at  the  Smythers'  farm  a 
year  ago.  Smythers  is  a  bigoted  old  wretch, 
usually  half  drunk,  and  the  morning  she  came  over 
and  offered  to  help,  he  pushed  her  out  of  the  house 
with  insults  and  oaths.  But  Mrs.  Smythers  ran 
down  the  road  after  her  and  brought  her  back. 
Mrs.  Smythers  had  been  doing  all  the  work  and  all 
the  nursing  of  the  sick  children,  and  hadn't  slept  for 
three  days  or  nights. 

The  Smythers  farm  is  a  fine  old  farm  but  the 

23 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

house  is  the  moldiest  farm  house  in  this  part  of  the 
state.  The  day  before,  I  had,  with  great  diffi- 
culty, got  two  practical  nurses  from  town,  but 
when  they  saw  the  place  they  took  the  first  train 
back  to  New  Haven.  All  the  beds  and  couches 
in  the  house  were  occupied  by  sick  children. 
Smythers  himself  slept  in  the  barn.  There  was  no 
place  for  the  nurse  to  sleep  but  on  the  floor.  And 
such  a  floor !  This  colored  girl  stayed  in  that  house 
a  month,  and  I  am  sure  saved  the  lives  of  several 
members  of  the  family.  Every  member  of  the 
family  had  the  disease  but  the  father.  One  child 
died;  two  are  still  partly  paralyzed.  The  others 
are  well.  The  mother  had  only  a  slight  attack,  but 
for  about  a  week  Lucy  Morphy  ran  the  house  alone. 
And  at  the  end  of  the  month,  she  herself  was  taken 
sick  and  we  sent  her  to  the  Isolation  Hospital  in 
New  Haven.  She  couldn't  walk  well  until  Sep- 
tember. 

"When  she  came  home  cured  a  week  before 
Christmas,  she  was  a  changed  person.  All  the 
white  people  in  town  were  anxious  to  make  a  hero- 
ine of  her,  and  to  show  kindness  to  her.  But  she 
discouraged  any  public  demonstration,  and  when 
the  local  correspondents  of  the  city  papers  and  the 
editor  of  the  Stornham  Times  came  to  her  for 
material  for  write-ups,  she  succeeded  in  extracting 
from  them  promises  not  to  print  a  word  about  her. 
She  promised  them  a  'bigger  story'  in  a  few  weeks. 

"The  flowers  and  gifts  that  were  showered  on  her 
on  Christmas  Day,  she  carried  or  sent  to  the  poor  or 

24 


''Did  You  Ever  See  Her  Ride?'' 

sick  negroes  of  the  town.  As  soon  as  she  was  able 
she  began  to  make  systematic  visits  to  all  the  negro 
families  in  this  and  the  surrounding  towns.  One 
afternoon  in  February  she  called  at  my  office 
because  of  some  cardiac  uneasiness  that  she  had  had 
the  night  before.  She  confided  to  me  what  was 
then  a  secret,  the  news  that  ever  since  November 
when  she  was  in  the  hospital  she  had  been  busy  on 
a  plan  to  organize  a  new  company  of  colored  troops 
of  the  National  Guard  from  the  small  towns  of  this 
part  of  the  state.  The  project  was  then  well  under 
way.  Her  brother  was  already  a  sergeant  in  this 
company  and    .    .    ." 

In  response  to  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door 
he  opened  it  and  several  voices  called  to  him: 
"They're  coming.     We  can  hear  the  drums." 

He  looked  at  me  in  despair,  but  continued,  talk- 
ing, however,  so  fast  that  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
understanding  him: 

"We'll  have  to  go.  Don't  lose  your  tickets.  As 
to  her,  she  got  white  officers  and  colored  officers 
to  come  here  to  instruct  the  new  company.  She 
attended  the  drills ;  got  up  entertainments ;  became 
the  idol  of  the  company.  Sang  to  them.  Taught 
them  to  sing,  and  made  them  the  finest  singers 
anybody  about  here  has  ever  heard.  To-day  before 
they  leave  they're  going  to  sing  her  anthem.  She 
wrote  it.  Got  Scott  of  New  York  to  write  the 
music.  The  words  are  on  that  program  I  gave 
you.  Nobody  but  negroes  and  Scott's  orchestra 
and  friends  has  heard  The  Song  yet.     Negro  choirs 

25 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

in  many  of  the  churches  of  the  state  have  been 
practising  it  for  weeks.  They  have  been  keeping 
it  a  sort  of  secret  from  the  white  people. 

"She's  perfectly  wild  in  her  love  of  the  flag  and 
in  her  desire  to  fight  for  it  and  have  all  her  colored 
people  fight  for  it.  She's  studying  aviation  and 
has  made  some  flights.  She  wanted  to  go  up 
to-day.  I  was  afraid  of  the  effect  of  the  excitement 
on  her  heart,  and  I  forbade  her  to  go  up.  So  she's 
going  to  ride  to-day  and  carry  the  flag,  the  gift  of 
the  town  to  her  company.  Did  you  ever  see  her 
ride?  O,  Heavens,  we  are  too  late  to  get  into  the 
Green." 


26 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"Always  Has  His  Own  Way." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  door.  A  line  of 
white  troopers  was  driving  the  crowd  out  of  the 
street  surrounding  the  Green.  The  roadway,  how- 
ever, was  so  broad  that  they  didn't  deem  it  neces- 
sary to  interfere  with  the  standing  automobiles,  but 
the  machines  were  made  to  hug  the  curb  closely. 

I  tried  to  persuade  the  doctor  and  his  wife  who 
had  just  joined  us  to  accompany  me  to  my  car. 
They  elected  to  stay  where  they  were.  I  therefore 
launched  into  the  crowd  alone  and  soon  succeeded  in 
approaching  the  curb  where  Jerry  extended  his 
hand  to  me  and  held  open  the  door.  "I  wish  we 
were  home,  Doctor,"  was  his  fervent  greeting. 

"Why?"  I  asked;  "the  performance  hasn't  be- 
gun yet." 

The  noise  of  the  approaching  drums  and  the 
laughing  and  loud  talk  of  the  throngs  made  it 
necessary  to  raise  one's  voice  to  be  heard.  Jerry 
shouted  back  at  me : 

"It's  begun  for  me  all  right,  and  I'm  afraid  if  we 
don't  get  out  of  here  quick,  it'll  be  over  for  me  or 
for  some  of  us  soon.  Did  you  ever  suppose. 
Doctor,  that  there  was  that  many  darkies  on  earth  ? 
One  of  them  flying  machines  has  just  been  swoop- 
ing up  over  the  trees,  and  they  all  said  it  was  driven 
by  a  colored  fellow.     They  all  cheered  him,  and 

27 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

what  do  you  think  he  did?  Just  as  he  got  over  this 
car,  he  began  dropping  things.  One  of  them 
struck  me  on  the  head  and  another  fell  on  the  seat. 
I  nearly  died.  I  ain't  all  over  it  yet.  But  the 
things  he  dropped  was  only  thin  sheets  of  paper  con- 
taining the  words  of  a  song,  all  rolled  up  in  little 
balls.  Here's  one  of  them.  Look!  there's  a  couple 
more  of  the  flying  machines.  I  hope  they'll  cut  out 
that  business  of  dropping  things." 

The  rattle  of  drums  now  made  further  vocalizing 
impossible  even  for  Jerry. 

And  here  were  the  soldiers.  There  were  only 
two  companies,  one  of  white  troops  and  one  of 
black.  The  white  company  had  come  from  the 
neighboring  camp  to  do  honor  to  the  departing 
black  company. 

In  no  detail  of  physique  or  marching  or  other 
soldierly  quality  were  the  white  troops  inferior 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  the  blacks.  The  appear- 
ance of  both  companies  spelled  war,  and  WAR  in 
capital  letters.  And  the  white  company  received 
generous  applause  from  every  onlooker,  white  and 
black. 

But  the  hearts  of  the  crowd  were  with  the  khaki- 
clad  blacks.  As  the  tall,  studious-looking  captain 
of  the  blacks,  leading  his  first  lines  in  perfect  trim 
and  step,  appeared,  sputtering  cheers  would  start 
and  then  quickly  die  out,  and  then  would  be  a  wave 
of  almost  fiendish  yells,  and  then  silence.  For  here 
behind  the  second  line  of  the  colored  company  was 
the  spectacle  of  the  parade : 
28 


''Always  Has  His  Own  Way.  " 

Lucy  Morphy,  dressed  like  the  soldiers,  in  khaki ; 
hatless;  her  long  hair  caught  in  a  crimson  band; 
astride  of  a  beautiful,  prancing,  black  horse ;  riding 
with  perfect  ease,  in  spite  of  the  rippling  of  the 
great  silken  flag  she  bore;  heedless  of  the  sensation 
she  created ;  her  flashing  eyes  turned  always  to  the 
flag ;  one  hand  loosely  holding  the  reins,  the  other 
steadying  the  staff;  young;  lithe;  impassioned; 
appealing. 

As  she  passed  me,  the  colored  folks  about  me 
were  beginning  again  to  find  their  voices  with  more 
or  less  articulate  cries  of 

"Lucy!" 

"Our  Lucy." 

"God  bless  her!" 

"Praise  God!" 

"A  Blessed  child!" 

"God  loves  her!" 

"Hurrah  for  Lucy,  our  Lucy." 

The  whites  of  the  crowd  were  hardly  less  affected 
than  the  blacks  but  they  were  less  demonstrative. 
However,  they  cheered  and  hurrahed,  and  then  they 
seemed  to  choose  from  all  the  cries  dinning  their 
ears,  the  simplest,  "Lucy!"  And  "Lucy!" 
"Lucy!"  "Lucy!"  they  cried  wherever  she  passed 
as  the  parade  made  its  noisy  circuit  of  the  Green. 

After  her  came  other  lines  of  shiny  black  troopers, 
with  muscles  of  iron  and  the  tread  of  tigers,  hand- 
ling their  rifles  with  familiar  affection,  staring 
stonily  ahead  in  a  fierce  endeavor  to  restrain  their 
exulting  pride  of  one  another  and  of  Lucy.     As  the 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

parade  approached  the  Town  Hall  the  black  com- 
pany executed  many  evolutions  of  the  drill  in  a  way 
to  evoke  enthusiastic  applause  from  the  critics. 
But  by  this  time  most  of  the  delirious  crowd  could 
see  through  their  misty  eyes  only  a  cavorting  horse, 
a  black  girl  rider,  and  a  starry  flag  held  high. 

Even  I  was  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  an 
unusual  sensation  of  dryness  in  my  throat,  when  I 
realized  Jerry  was  pulling  on  my  coat  sleeve. 

"Say,  Doctor,  what's  the  matter,  this  is  the  third 
time  I  tried  to  make  you  hear.  You  want  to  look 
out  for  her.  That  girl  ain't  right.  She's  got  this 
crowd  locoed.  She  almost  got  me.  When  she  was 
goin'  by  the  car,  I  found  myself  yelling  like  a  mad- 
man. Did  you  yell?  I  wanted  to  look  at  you  to 
see,  but  for  a  minute  or  so  I  was  too  ashamed  of 
myself  to  turn  around  to  find  out.  She  ain't  right, 
she  ain't  right.  Doctor,  and  I'll  be  glad  when  we're 
out  of  here.  How  long  more  ai'e  you  going  to 
stay?" 

"Not  so  loud!  Not  so  loud,  Jerry.  That's 
dangerous  stuif  you're  talking.  The  girl  is  all 
right.  The  show  can't  last  long  now.  See,  the 
head  of  the  procession  is  at  the  Town  Hall  already." 

Jerry  subsided,  but  with  poor  grace.  As  the 
last  of  the  lines  of  soldiers  passed  in  front  of  my  car, 
the  crowds  quickly  filled  the  street  again  and 
followed  them,  or  made  usually  vain  efforts  to  find 
points  of  vantage  on  the  Green. 

I  fought  my  way  back  to  Dr.  Menoux's  house, 
and  after  the  crowd  on  this  side  of  the  Green  had 

80 


''Always  Has  His  Own  Way.  '* 

thinned  somewhat,  I  helped  him  to  escort  his  wife 
to  the  reserved  area  in  front  of  the  enlarged  grand 
stand. 

By  the  time  we  reached  our  seats,  the  roped-off 
space  was  nearly  as  crowded  as  the  rest  of  the 
Green.  Here,  were  seated  the  company  of  white 
troops  that  had  been  in  the  parade,  and  perhaps 
three  hundred  of  us  in  mufti,  who  had  received 
special  invitations,  and — most  important  of  all — 
here  were  seated  with  us,  or  rather  in  front  of  us. 
Leader  Scott  and  his  New  York  orchestra. 

On  the  stand  half  a  dozen  town  officials  occupied 
chairs  behind  which  the  colored  troops  stood  at 
attention,  listening  to  a  somewhat  turgid  address 
by  the  First  Selectman  who  was  presenting,  in  the 
name  of  the  town,  the  beautiful  flag  that  Lucy  had 
carried  in  the  parade.  The  captain  accepted  the 
flag  and  promised  to  carry  it  to  victory  or  to  die 
in  its  defense.  Neither  of  the  speeches  could  be 
heard  distinctly,  even  where  we  sat,  and  before  they 
were  finished  there  were  ominous  signs  of  unrest  in 
the  huddled  thousands,  particularly  in  the  distant 
parts  of  the  Green. 

Then,  when  the  First  Selectman  arose  again,  and 
began  another  speech  of  which  even  we  could  not 
hear  a  word,  the  discontent  broke  into  a  storm  of 
disapproval.  Cries  of  "Lucy,"  "Our  Lucy," 
"Give  us  Lucy,"  "The  Song,"  "Sing  The 
Song,"  came  from  all  parts  of  the  assembled  multi- 
tude. 

The  captain  stepped  forward  beside  the  speaker 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

and  motioned  for  silence.  The  noise  immediately 
grew  less,  but  before  it  had  ceased,  the  Selectman, 
conscious  of  his  importance  as  chairman  of  the  meet- 
ing, and  a  little  resentful  of  the  influence  of  the 
negro  soldier,  made  the  mistake  of  beginning  to 
talk  again.  The  reply  of  the  crowd  was  instant 
and  angry,  and  deafening.  Still  he  went  through 
the  motions  of  making  a  speech. 

Dr.  Menoux  leaned  over  and  whispered  in  my 
ear: 

"He's  our  principal  citizen.  Dreary,  but  always 
has  his  way  here.  He's  bound  to  carry  out  the  pro- 
gram as  printed  and  have  all  the  other  town  officials 
make  the  speeches  they've  prepared.  Always  has 
his  own  way." 

"He'll  fail  this  time,"  I  replied;  "but  where  is 
Lucy?  She'll  have  to  appear.  Hear  them  call 
her!" 

"I'm  here.  Doctor,"  said  a  familiar  voice  behind 
me. 

I  jumped  to  my  feet  and  turned  to  shake  hands 
with  her  where  she  sat  in  the  chair  next  to  the  wife 
of  Dr.  Menoux.  As  she  arose  smiling  she  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  officers  of  the  white  soldiers 
nearby.  Two  of  them  immediately  came  toward 
her,  whispered  to  her,  and  escorted  her  to  the  steps 
of  the  stand.  A  great  roar  of  recognition  and 
triumph  swelled  through  the  trees  and  along  the 
roads.  And  then  came  a  silence  so  sharp  that  even 
the  Selectman  could  not  resist  it.  He  stopped  talk- 
ing and  returned  to  his  seat. 

32 


''Always  Has  His  Own  Way,  " 

Lucy  stood  alone  in  front  of  her  company  of 
impassive  black  soldiers. 

Suddenly  a  wonderful  mezzo-soprano  voice  rang 
through  the  ambient  evening  air,  singing  the  Star- 
spangled  Banner.  There  was  no  other  sound. 
Nobody  tried  to  "join  in"  with  the  chorus.  Soar- 
ing easily  and  lovingly  through  all  the  difficult 
stanzas,  Lucy  concluded  by  dropping  on  her  knees, 
catching  a  corner  of  the  company's  new  flag  and 
reverently  kissing  its  fluttering  hem. 

The  thrill  of  the  thing  stirred  every  listener  and 
brought  out  thunderous  applause.  As  for  myself, 
I  turned  to  Dr.  Menoux  and  his  wife  and  said: 
"I  have  heard  it  sung  in  many  lands  by  many 
famous  singers  and  under  many  strange  conditions, 
but  it  never  before  got  into  my  bones  in  this  way. 
Did  you  know  she  had  a  voice  like  that?" 

"Yes,  we  knew,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  but  just  wait  till  you  hear  her  own  song," 
said  Mrs.  Menoux,  smilingly. 


33 


CHAPTER  V. 

"The  Song." 

As  the  last  cheers  in  the  fringes  of  the  crowd 
ceased,  there  began  a  deep  organ-like  humming  in 
various  parts  of  the  audience  of  the  same  strange 
melody  that  we  had  heard  early  in  the  afternoon 
from  the  crowded  jitneys  on  the  road. 

Then  the  orchestra  came  to  life,  swung  its  chairs 
about  and  began  to  tune  up  its  instruments.  The 
humming  in  the  audience  took  on  greater  volume 
and  unison.  The  tall  leader  of  the  orchestra 
mounted  a  couple  of  chairs. 

"That's  Scott,  the  New  York  composer,"  Mrs. 
Menoux  whispered  to  me. 

He  waved  his  baton  to  Lucy,  who  now  was  stand- 
ing beside  the  captain  of  the  colored  company.  The 
humming  in  the  audience  ceased.  The  orchestra 
played  its  first  few  bars,  and  then  accompanied 
Lucy  who  sang  "When  God  Had  Made  the  World, 
etc." 

Like  everybody  else  I  began  by  trying  to  follow 
the  words  of  the  song  in  the  crumpled  program; 
but  there  was  no  need,  at  least  within  the  reserved 
area.  Even  when  the  black  soldiers  at  the  so-called 
chorus,  or  last  half  of  the  stanza,  added  their  voices 
to  hers,  singing  in  parts,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  catch- 
ing every  word.  As  for  the  music,  its  first  bars 
suggested,  vaguely,  it  is  true — but  still  suggested, 

34 


'•The  Song." 


the  joyous  clarion  peal  of  the  old  Te  Deum  Lau- 
damus.  And  there  was  such  a  stateliness  and 
simplicity  and  such  searching  melody  through  all 
the  haunting  score,  as  gave  pleasure  that  almost 
hurt,  not  alone  to  those  who  heard  but  even  in  a 
greater  degree  to  those  who  sang. 

The  intensity  of  the  joy  that  shone  in  every 
black  soldier's  face  throughout  the  singing  was 
worth  a  long  journey  to  see.  The  end  of  the  last 
stanza  they  sang  with  a  harmonious  abandon  impos- 
sible to  describe.    And  this  was  what  they  sang: 

"When  God  had  made  the  world, — 
This  spinning  world  we  know, — 
And  'round  the  land  had  hurled 
The  flood;    had  made  to  blow 
The  trumpets  of  the  storm; 
Had  made  the  moving  light 
Of  peaks  and  plains,  a  norm 
Of  beauty  and  of  might. 
Ah,  then  He  kept  apart 
A  garden  wondrous  fair, — 
America  our  own, — 
All  planned  with  heavenly  art, 
All  hedged  with  angel's  care. 
And  all  with  freedom  sown. 

"When  He  beheld  the  wrack 
His  creatures'  passions  made 
Of  truth  and  peace;  their  lack 
Of  honor;    and  saw  fade 
His  hopes  to  hold  the  keys 
To  hearts  of  men  in  lands 
Beside  the  eastern  seas. 
And  by  the  Desert's  sands, 

35 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

Again  He  thought  of  you. 
His  garden  wondrous  fair, — 
America  our  own, — 
Where  through  a  haze  of  blue. 
Arose  a  red-child's  prayer 
To  ghosts  but  not  to  stone. 

"When  Europe's  faith  had  seed 
That  wasted  was  at  home, 
Then  God  at  last  gave  heed. 
And  through  the  rainbowed  foam 
Three  lonely  ships  sailed  west, — 
An  emblem's  power  to  prove, 
A  dreamer's  soul  to  test, 
A  stagnant  world  to  move. 
Soon  all  men  gazed  on  you, 
His  garden  wondrous  fair, — 
America  our  own, — 
Still  wet  with  morning  dew. 
Still  dim  in  twilight  air. 
Still  sweet  as  rose  just  blown. 

"When  God  beholds,  to-day. 
The  eager  groups  from  all 
The  chosen  tribes,  who  play 
And  fall,  and  work,  and  call 
On  Him  for  light,  and  sing 
To  Him  their  feeble  praise. 
And  hail  Him  only.  King, 
Who  mountains  made  and  Mays, 
See  how  with  love  of  you. 
His  garden  wondrous  fair, — 
America  our  own, — 
He  smiles  the  long  day  through. 
And  bids  His  children  share 
The  freedom  He  had  sown. 

36 


"The  Song." 


'Our  lives  in  shelter  lie, 
Between  the  greening  oceans ; 
Our  youth,  unfettered,  try; 
Our  aged  sip  the  potions 
That  conscience  gives  to  worth; 
The  truth  our  sages  seek 
Of  life,  and  space,  and  earth, — 
But  bow  them  to  The  Meek. 
It's  gathered  love  we  bring, 
O  garden  wondrous  fair, — 
America  our  own, — 
To  God,  to  God  your  King, 
Who  led  us  here  to  share 
The  harvest  He  had  sown. 

'We've  gathered  love  from  dreams 
Come  true ;  from  men  aglow 
With  Mercy's  mellow  beams ; 
From  men's  delight  to  show 
That  in  this   fragrant  shade 
Grow  lusting  for  the  right, 
And  patience  unafraid. 
And  honor  vouched  with  might. 
By  order  of  your  King, 
O  garden  wondrous  fair, 
America  our  own, — 
This  gathered  love  we  fling 
To  children  everywhere 
Of  Him  who  reigns  alone." 


37 


CHAPTER  VI. 
"I've  Been  Knocking  Wood." 

When  The  Song  was  finished  and  the  last 
enchanting  orchestral  note  had  sounded,  a  strange 
thing  happened:  there  was  no  applause.  As  for 
myself,  I  could  not  find  my  voice.  But  I  was 
embarrassed  by  my  emotion  which  I  supposed  was 
due,  in  part  at  least,  to  my  acquaintance  with  Lucy 
and  my  knowledge  of  the  transformation  that  she 
had  undergone  in  a  year;  or  perhaps  my  vocal 
inertia  was  due  to  the  fact  that  I  was  a  sclerosed 
doctor.  Surely,  I  thought,  the  rest  of  this  crowd 
will  go  frantic  in  their  applause  of  such  singing  of 
such  a  song,  or  hymn,  or  anthem,  or  whatever  the 
right  name  may  be  for  it.  But  no,  the  silence  per- 
sisted and  made  me  feel  decidedly  uncomfortable. 
I  heard  some  sobbing  near  me  and  then  I  saw  Mrs. 
Menoux,  her  head  on  the  doctor's  shoulder,  crying 
her  heart  out. 

"Disappointed?"  I  said  to  myself.  "She  cannot 
think  Lucy's  song  has  failed." 

In  response  to  a  liint  from  her  husband,  Mrs. 
Menoux  lifted  her  head,  looked  up  at  me  through 
her  tears,  and  said: 

"Doctor,  I  knew  God  loved  that  girl.  Hasn't 
He  been  good  to  her  to-day?" 

And  then  I  observed  that  every  woman  in  sight 
was  in  tears,  and  many  men.  Suddenly  from  far 
out  under  the  trees,  a  group  that  I  learned  after- 
wards was  the  choir  of  a  Hartford  colored  church. 


'Tve  Been  Knocking  Wood.  " 

began  to  sing  softly,  without  accompaniment, 
"When  God  had  made  the  world — " 

They  had  not  finished  the  second  line  before  a 
dozen  other  similar  choir  groups  had  joined  them, 
and  soon  it  seemed  that  ten  thousand  voices  were 
singing  The  Song. 

Members  of  the  orchestra  suggested  an  accom- 
paniment to  their  leader,  but  he  angrily  waved  them 
aside  with : 

"Listen,  you  fools.  Don't  talk.  Listen!  Listen! 
You'll  never  have  such  a  chance  again." 

Himself,  he  stood  with  every  sentient  nerve 
atingle,  as  his  ears  drank  in,  to  the  last  echo,  the 
sweet  proof  of  his  personal  triumph. 

The  town  officials  embraced  the  opportunity 
to  leave  the  platform  without  further  ado.  Their 
departure  gave  a  hint  to  the  colored  captain.  I 
heard  a  couple  of  sharp  commands  and  saw  the 
company  break  ranks  and  quickly  swarm  to  the 
ground.  They  seemed  particularly  pleased  with 
the  enthusiastic  plaudits  that  their  white  fellows  in 
khaki  immediately  showered  upon  them  individ- 
ually and  collectively. 

The  last  to  leave  the  platform  were  Lucy  and  her 
brother.  Absorbed  in  each  other,  they  finally  came 
to  us,  both  holding  themselves  in  great  restraint 
because  of  their  coming  parting.  We  vied  with 
one  another  in  saying  complimentary  things  to 
Lucy  about  The  Song,  and  her  singing,  and  the 
day's  great  success,  from  whatever  angle  it  was 
viewed,  but  we  failed  to  dispel  the  look  of  sadness 
89 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

in  her  eyes.  In  fact,  it  was  plain  to  both  Dr. 
Menoux  and  myself  that  her  tremendous  expendi- 
ture of  energy  and  emotion  had  begun  to  tell  on  her, 
and  we  both  quickly  seconded  Mrs.  Menoux's  sug- 
gestion that  we  all  find  our  way  immediately  out  of 
the  crowd  and  return  to  the  house.  As  we  passed 
in  front  of  my  car  I  was  surprised  to  see  Jerry 
standing  in  it,  painfully  trying  to  wed  the  music 
of  the  singing  all  about  him  to  the  words  of  the 
song  on  the  paper  that  the  aviator  had  dropped 
into  the  car  early  in  the  afternoon.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  me  he  sheepishly  tucked  the  paper  into  his 
pocket,  and  took  his  seat  behind  the  wheel,  and 
called  to  me : 

"I'm  glad  you've  come.  Doctor.  We  can  make 
a  quick  get-away  now,  and  beat  this  mob  to  the 
pike." 

"Pretty  soon.  Pretty  soon,"  I  answered.  "But 
how  do  you  like  the  singing?" 

"It's  great,  Doctor;  great!  I  never  heard  any- 
thing like  that  before.  It's  queer,  though,  that 
nothing's  happened.  I  can't  get  the  hunch  out  of 
my  head  that  something's  goin'  wrong  before  we 
get  home.  I've  been  knocking  wood  for  the  last 
half  hour." 

"Well,  Jerry,"  I  laughed,  "you  will  have  to  stop 
eating  fried  stuff." 

Mrs.  Menoux,  after  leading  Lucy  upstairs  to  rest 

for  the  half -hour  before  train-time,  came  into  the 

consultation  room  where  the  doctor  and  Sergeant 

Morphy  were  relating  to  me  more  of  the  details  of 

40 


'Tve  Been  Knocking  Wood.  ** 

the  story  of  Lucy's  organizing  of  the  colored 
company. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  let  your  sister  go  to 
the  train,  Sergeant,"  she  said  anxiously;  "couldn't 
you  bid  her  good-bye  here?  Then  I  will  put  her  to 
bed  here  for  the  night.     She  is  exhausted." 

"Certainly  I  can,"  he  replied.  "But  I  am  afraid 
you  would  have  to  chain  her  to  keep  her  from  the 
station  to-night." 

I  felt  that  the  brother  was  right.  The  Stornham 
station  is  only  two  blocks  from  the  Green.  I  said, 
however,  that  we  would  all  try  to  dissuade  her  from 
leaving  the  house. 

Mrs.  Menoux  gave  us  a  little  supper,  but  before 
we  finished  it  the  bugles  called,  and  we  all  went 
immediately  to  the  front  door  to  see  the  troops  fall 
in  line.  Young  Morphy  rushed  upstairs  to  his 
sister,  and  in  a  moment  came  down  with  her  on  his 
arm.  He  kissed  her  at  the  door,  and  ran  across  the 
street  where  the  two  companies  were  almost  ready 
for  the  short  march  to  the  station.  The  crowd  had 
begun  to  disintegrate.  Most  of  the  private  auto- 
mobiles had  gone  home.  From  the  door-step  I  saw 
that  Jerry  was  anxious  and  chagrined.  He  called 
to  me:     "Too  late  now.  Doctor." 

I  smiled,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Menoux,  "My  man  is 
disappointed  because  we  did  not  start  before  the 
others.  We  got  caught  in  the  ruck  of  jitneys  com- 
ing over  here.  That's  what  delayed  me  this  after- 
noon." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  waited,  Doctor,"  interjected 

41 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

Lucy.  "After  we  come  back  from  the  station  I 
want  Dr.  Menoux  to  consult  with  you  about  my 
case.  Dr.  Menoux  is  worried  unnecessarily,  I  am 
sure,  about  my  heart." 

Then  the  troops  marched  by.  When  the  last 
lines  had  passed,  Dr.  Menoux  said : 

"We  think  that  you  ought  not  to  go  to  the  sta- 
tion, Lucy.  Suppose  you  let  us  have  the  consulta- 
tion now.     We'll  all  stay  home  from  the  station." 

"What!  Desert  our  boys  at  the  last  minute? 
Not  I.  You  don't  mean  that.  Not  go  to  the  sta- 
tion? I'd  never  forgive  myself.  And  you'd  never 
forgive  yourselves  if  you  didn't  go.  And  the  boys 
expect  us.  How  disappointed  they  would  be !  It's 
dreadful  to  think  of, — the  boys  saying  good-bye  to 
Stornham  and  we  not  there  to  hear.  For  months 
I  have  been  looking  forward  to  this  supreme 
moment  when  our  black  boys  will  really  cut  their 
home  ties  and  begin  the  first  stage  of  their  journey 
to  the  firing  line  in  France.  No  matter  what  glory 
they  may  achieve  in  the  future,  no  matter  whether 
they  capture  Germans  or  Turks,  nothing  they  may 
do  can  equal  the  glory  of  the  actual  giving  of  them- 
selves to  their  country.  I  would  go  to  the  station 
to-night  if  I  had  to  crawl  there  on  my  hands  and 
knees." 

This  outburst  startled  us.  The  doctor  and  his 
wife  seemed  relieved  when  I  said: 

"I  have  it.  We'll  all  get  into  my  car  and  go  to 
the  station  together." 

Lucy  hesitated  and  then  said,  "Thanks,  Doctor, 
that  will  be  fine." 

42 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"A  Sworn  Promise." 

When  Jerry  saw  us  get  into  the  car  and  saw 

Lucy  take  her  place  beside  Mrs.  Menoux,  he  turned 

pale.     The  doctor  and  I  pulled  out  the  chair  seats. 

"All  right,  Jerry,"  I  said,  "the  station." 

"What  station,  Doctor?     New  Haven  station?" 

"Nonsense,  Jerry.     Stornham  station." 

"Can't  make  it.  Doctor.     In  the  first  place  these 

white  soldiers  doing  police  duty  are  turning  back 

everything  on  wheels,  and  the  crowd  is  so  thick  you 

couldn't  get  through,  police  or  no  police." 

"Well,  we'll  try.     Go  ahead,  Jerry." 

As  soon  as  we  reached  the  little  street  that  led 

to  the  station,  Jerry  was  promptly  halted  and  told 

he  could  not  turn  the  corner.     Not  unwillingly,  he 

stopped  the  car,   and  looked   to  me   for   further 

instructions.     Before  I  could  answer,  Lucy  was 

recognized  by  the  crowd.     The  soldiers  fell  back 

and  saluted  her.     A  hundred  and  then  a  thousand 

voices  took  up  the  cries  of  "Lucy,"  "Our  Lucy." 

The  yelling  crowd  swarmed  about  the  car,  and  in 

spite    of    Jerry's    angry    protests,    many    colored 

women  and  girls,  and  some  of  the  older  colored  men, 

climbed  onto  Lucy's  side  of  the  car,  and  tried  to 

kiss  her  arms  and  hair.     The  white  soldiers  quickly 

drove  them  off,  and  made  themselves  a  protecting 

cordon  about  the  car.     An  officer  forced  his  way 

43 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

through  the  crowd,  and,  taking  in  the  situation, 
told  Lucy  to  sit  in  front  beside  Jerry,  where  she 
could  be  easily  seen,  and  then  he  bade  Jerry  turn  the 
corner  and  drive  slowly  to  the  station,  sounding  his 
horn  all  the  way. 

The  crowd  parted  in  front  of  us,  and  closed  in 
behind  us.  In  that  moment  of  comparative  quiet, 
a  big  negro  on  the  sidewalk  began  to  sing  in  a 
powerful  tenor  voice,  "When  God  had  made  the 
World."  At  the  chorus,  even  we  in  the  tonneau 
joined.  Only  Lucy  and  Jerry  were  silent.  We 
were  finishing  the  last  stanza  when  Jerry  stopped 
the  car  at  the  western  end  of  the  uncovered  station 
platform. 

The  baggage  had  been  aboard  the  special  train 
since  morning.  The  soldiers  were  helping  them- 
selves to  the  sand^viches,  and  coffee  and  ice-cream 
provided  by  the  committee  of  arrangements.  I 
was  amused  to  find  that  the  man  in  charge  was  the 
same  selectman  who  had  been  so  anxious  to  make 
speeches  from  the  band-stand.  The  locomotive 
attached  to  the  special  gave  a  couple  of  warning 
toots.  Some  of  the  soldiers  were  already  laugh- 
ingly crowding  into  their  assigned  coaches. 

When  our  arrival  was  noted,  there  arose  again 
cheers  for  Lucy,  at  first  from  the  black  troopers, 
but  irmnediately  afterward  from  the  white  soldiers 
as  well.  With  one  impulse  the  blacks  rushed  to  the 
edge  of  the  platform  to  say  good-bye  to  Lucy.  The 
selectman  saw  his  chance  and,  stepping  on  the  front, 
ordered  Jerry  to  help  Lucy  out  of  the  car  to  the 

44 


''A  Sworn  Promise. 


platform.  In  a  flash  she  stepped  on  the  platform 
without  help,  and  in  the  cheeriest,  proudest  way, 
shook  hands  with  every  member  of  the  company. 

It  was  now  a  whole  minute  after  seven.  The 
conductor  and  engineer  were  growing  impatient. 
The  locomotive  whistle  blew  again  and  the  fireman 
began  to  clang  the  bell.  Almost  the  last  of  the 
company  to  return  to  the  train  was  the  captain. 
And  before  he  stepped  aboard  he  approached  Capt. 
Godfrey,  the  commander  of  the  white  soldiers,  and, 
leading  him  over  to  Lucy,  said  in  a  voice  audible  to 
us  in  the  automobile: 

"Captain,  my  company  and  I  owe  our  souls  to 
Lucy.  She  saved  our  souls.  We  never  can  repay 
her.  Some  of  us,  perhaps  all  of  us,  will  not  come 
back  to  Stornham.  Can  I  ask  you,  a  brother  sol- 
dier, to  bring  to  the  attention  of  the  proper  authori- 
ties the  work  this  dear  girl  has  done?  You  will 
have  time.  I  understand  your  company  may  not 
be  called  for  two  weeks  yet.  A  mere  suggestion 
from  you  would  arouse  more  interest  than  an  appeal 
from  me.  You  know  how  it  will  kindle  the  blood 
of  my  men  in  the  coming  days  in  France  when  I 
tell  them  that  the  President  has  learned  of  our 
Lucy,  and  has  honored  her.     Is  it  a  promise?" 

The  white  man  gripped  the  black  man's  hand  and 
looked  him  in  the  eyes  and  replied,  "It's  a  promise. 
Captain,  a  sworn  promise." 


45 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  Sunlit  Altak. 

There  was  a  shriek  from  the  locomotive. 

"All  aboard!  All  aboard!"  called  the  conductor. 
The  big  wheels  of  the  engine  began  to  turn.  The 
train  shivered  for  an  instant,  and  then  gruntingly 
moved  forward.  Lucy's  brother  kissed  her  again 
and  swung  himself  aboard,  almost  on  the  heels  of 
his  captain.  From  the  crowded  platforms  and 
windows  of  the  passing  coaches,  there  was  a  wild 
waving  of  hats  and  hands  and  confused  attempts 
at  singing,  and  almost  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it,  the  last  coach  had  gone  from  the  station. 

Dreamily  looking  over  the  back  of  the  auto- 
mobile from  my  kneeling  position  on  the  rear  seat, 
I  watched  the  outlines  of  the  speeding  train  melt 
into  the  blazing  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Then  I 
noticed  that  I  was  alone  in  the  automobile.  The 
others  were  rushing  toward  Lucy.  She  had  fallen 
on  her  hands  and  knees  and  was  struggling  to  rise. 
Jerry  was  the  first  to  reach  her.  He  caught  her 
and  endeavored  to  lift  her  to  her  feet.  She  tried  to 
thank  him,  but  the  words  wouldn't  come.  She 
clapped  her  hands  over  her  heart  and  moaned. 

At  our  direction,  Jerry  gently  laid  her  on  the 
platform.  She  looked  around  at  our  anxious  faces 
for  a  moment,  and  closing  her  eyes,  cried  out 
between  gasping  breaths:    "Forgive — my  weak- 

46 


A  Sunlit  Altar/ '^' 


ness, — Lord. I've    tried to    keep my — 

promise — .     I've ." 

She  breathed  hard,  long  breaths. 

"It's  gone  from  the  wrist,"  said  Dr.  Menoiix,  as 
he  took  one  hand  and  then  the  other.  Through  the 
moisture  on  her  temple,  I  could  yet  feel  a  slight 
pulse.  We  quickly  prepared,  and  gave  her  hypo- 
dermic injections  of  the  ordinary  heart  stimulants. 
The  soldiers  drove  back  the  awe-stricken  spectators 
that  had  crowded  onto  the  platform. 

"It's  coming  again,"  excitedly  cried  Dr.  Menoux, 
kneeling  beside  her,  and  with  his  fingertips  hun- 
grily welcoming  the  little  stream  that  the  heart  was 
once  more  sending  to  the  extremities. 

The  face  quivered  and  the  eyes  opened  again. 
She  stared  straight  into  the  blinding  western  light. 
To  protect  her,  Capt.  Godfrey  moved  between  her 
and  the  sun.  "Oh,  Captain,"  she  said  in  a  feeble 
voice.     He  knelt,  hat  in  hand,  to  hear  her.     "Tell — 

my — boys .     At  the  Rhine — .     At  the  Rhine — 

I'll  come — I'll  come — .     We'll  cross, — we'll  cross 

together.      I'll help, help — to — hold — 

the — flag — high." 

A  little  convulsive  movement  ran  through  her 
body.  Her  muscles  relaxed.  Dr.  Menoux  rose  to 
his  feet  and  looked  in  despair  at  the  rest  of  us.  It 
wasn't  necessary  for  him  to  speak. 

The  captain  was  the  first  to  move.  He  went  into 
the  station  and  brought  back  his  khaki  rain-coat  and 
spread  it  reverently  over  the  body.  The  sun  was 
at  the  horizon's  edge.     Its  level  light  dazzled  us. 

47 


The  Sister  of  a  Certain  Soldier. 

For  a  couple  of  minutes  we, — the  doctor,  his  wife, 
the  captain,  the  selectman,  Jerry  and  myself, — 
stood  entranced  in  that  golden  light. 

The  sun  set.  The  sky  decked  itself  in  an  after- 
glow of  purple  and  rose  and  tender  green. 

I  began  to  feel  that  I  was  an  intruder  in  a 
sanctuary. 

I  turned  away  and  faced  the  crowd.  Every 
man's  hat  was  off.  Woe  was  written  on  every  face. 
There  was  no  loud  talk.  Everybody  whispered  as 
if  in  church.  Jerry,  trembling,  so  that  I  feared  he 
would  fall,  followed  me  to  my  car. 

"Say,  Doctor,  you'll  have  to  drive  the  car  your- 
self," he  confided  to  me.     "I'm  all  in." 

A  few  minutes  afterward  came  the  doctor  and  his 
wife. 

"Capt.  Godfrey  says  that  he  and  his  men  will 
take  charge  of  the  funeral,  if  Lucy's  father  doesn't 
object,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  took  his  seat.  "The 
selectman  protests  that  the  town  ought  to  have 
charge." 

I  took  the  wheel  and  asked  Jerry  to  sit  beside  me. 

"No,  Doctor,"  he  replied,  white  faced,  "I'll 
walk." 

On  our  slow  way  back  through  the  hushed  crowd, 
we  passed  a  big  man  running  toward  the  station.  I 
was  so  busy  with  the  machine  that  I  didn't  recognize 
him. 

"Lucy's  father!"  said  Mrs.  Menoux. 


48 


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